“Laun preserves us,” Roar countered. He was breathing hard. This was an old disagreement for him, too. Asher even knew what he was about to say...and not say. “If humans knew about us,” Roar added, “they would not be kind. They wouldn’t understand.” Asher knew he was thinking about Meggy, but he would never speak her name aloud.
That was eight hundred years ago! Asher wanted to cry. But the same prohibition that stopped Roar from speaking of it halted Asher, too. It was all the fault of laun. Secrets, silence, collaborative hiding...it kept most of their lives buried. The habits of secrecy made not talking about matters that should be spoken of easier.
But even that argument was old. Roar never let the sense of it register. Denial was a fine, fine tool of statecraft, Asher thought bitterly. He drew in a slow, hard breath, trying to let his anger dissipate. “I’m going,” he said shortly.
“Yes,” Roar agreed flatly.
As always, Asher stalked from the hall with his temper stirred and all the old frustrations churning, making themselves felt anew.
He needed a drink. Something other than scotch. He needed to forget, but forgetting was not a human luxury the Kine enjoyed.
* * * * *
Asher remembered what he had forgotten as soon as he walked into the restaurant.
Jessica was sitting at the bar, a highball glass containing one of her disgusting whiskey sours in front of her. The pretty brunette was bowed over the padded front of the bar like she had been there for a while.
Ylva was in the dining section, leaning over a table of regulars that Asher vaguely recognized. She straightened up when she saw him and her gaze flickered toward Jessica. She didn’t smile until she looked down at the diners once more.
Tiredness gripped him. Everyone wanted a piece of him tonight. Everyone was pissed at him. Jessica wasn’t good at holding back her feelings, so this was going to be a round and a half of acrimony, but in her case, he was guilty as charged.
He took a breath, bracing himself, and crossed to the bar and slid onto the stool next to her. “Jess, I’m sorry.”
She straightened up with a snap. “I’ve been here over two freaking hours! Where were you?”
“Did you eat? Can I get you something?” he asked, lifting his hand to catch Bernie’s gaze and beckon him over.
“No, I don’t want anything to eat, you fucking moron!” Contrary to the power of her words, she kept her voice low. Intense. It had been that low register in her purring words that had first caught his attention. But that attraction had waned, possibly long ago. Jessica, like most of his life, had evolved into a habit. Ingrained and overlooked...until now.
“I’ll call a cab for you,” he said, the tiredness spreading through his shoulders and the back of his neck, making them ache.
Jessica’s eyes widened. “You’re getting rid of me.”
“It’s late,” he pointed out. “You’ve got work in the morning.”
“It’s past nine. I waited for you.” All the sultriness in her voice had fled.
“Jess, I’m tired, and this is not the place for this discussion.” Ylva had warned him more than once about conducting his personal affairs in front of customers.
“When, then?” she demanded. “You’re always here, or somewhere where I can’t find you. You’re never at the bank and you told me that was your real job. And you’re never home!”
“I have a complicated life.”
She laughed, and there was bitterness in it. “What’s the complication’s name?”
It’s nothing like what you think. The words were there, tempting him to speak them aloud. But that would push the discussion (argument) onto dangerous ground.
He thought of the beginning of his evening. The child with the dark eyes and direct way of speaking about...things. Truth for truth. That had been the deal.
“Charlee,” Asher said flatly, staring Jessica in the eye. “Her name is Charlee.”
Jessica grew still. She had been reaching for her purse where it sat on the bar next to her elbow, but even that movement halted. She turned her head to look at Asher once more. Her eyes were wide.
Wounded.
“But I love you,” she whispered.
Asher’s gut tightened. He cast about for a sane response, something that wouldn’t hurt, that would make this alright for her. But there was nothing. Then he realized that it didn’t matter. The hurt had already been ladled out. The truth was going to hurt, no matter how he gave it to her.
So he looked her in the eye again and shook his head gently.
Her eyes welled with shining liquid and one tear dropped from her lashes. “Asher...” she whispered. It was loaded with pain.
Asher got to his feet and waved Bernie over. The barman hurried up. “Call a cab, please,” Asher told him. He reached past Jessica, who still sat motionless, and grabbed a pile of paper napkins off the bar, pushing them toward her. “Come on,” he said, taking her arm. “Let’s wait for the cab outside.”
She tore her arm from his grip. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? I’m just going to see you home.”
“You’re handling me. Like you handle everything. Nothing touches you, does it?” She sucked in a breath that hitched and dashed her tears away with the back of her hand. “One day, someone will get past all your armor. I hope you’re hurt. I hope whoever it is kills you.” She straightened up. She was only average height, which put her head just past his shoulder. “I wish I could be there to see it.”
There was nothing he could say aloud. Nothing he could say would ease this for her. So he stayed silent.
But even his silence hurt her. Her face tightened. “Asshole,” she breathed and headed for the door without looking back.
“Well, at least she didn’t crack the glass over your head, like Maria did,” Ylva said, next to him. She had glided up in her silent way while Asher watched Jessica leave.
“Sorry about the public performance,” Asher told her. “It blew up too fast.”
“I think you’re the only one surprised that it blew up in the first place,” Ylva said gently.
He looked at her, startled.
Ylva smiled and tucked her hand under his elbow. “Come on. You need coffee.” She led him back to the bar and asked Bernie softly for a cappuccino. Bernie hurried away to do his boss’s bidding as Asher tiredly lowered himself back onto the stool. Ylva perched next to him, her long legs under the hostess gown stretching down to the floor. She was still a beautiful woman, although her face was lined now. The hair that had once been a deep, dark brown was shot with grey.
The signs of aging in her had bothered Asher greatly when he had first seen them, but now he barely saw them. What he did notice, over and over again, was how...well, happy she was. Nothing seemed to remove the contented, quiet aura that surrounded her. The invisible cloak of joy had not always been there.
“How’s Jerry?” Asher asked.
Her smile shifted and grew warmer, making her eyes crinkle and dance. “Bored,” she admitted. “I’m tempted to tell him to go get a job, but I don’t think anyone would give him one at his age.”
Bernie slid the coffee in front of her and she pushed it over to Asher. “Drink.” She looked at Bernie. “Thank you.”
Bernie was smart. He knew he was dismissed. He nodded and moved toward the other end of the bar.
Ylva folded her hands in her lap. “You’ve had a busy night, haven’t you?”
Asher put the cup down. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
Ylva nodded, accepting his assurance. “That’s what I told myself when I felt it. You’re the best I know at what you do. But still...I worry.”
“Join the club,” he muttered. It was purely a figure of speech, but after Roar and Eira’s concerns and the talk (argument. The first argument, you mean) with Roar, he didn’t want to have to soothe yet more ruffles.
“That’s a club I was kicked out of a long time ago,” Ylva replied. Her tone was light, but the reminder made him wince.
“Sorry,” he said, as gently as he could.
She gave him a smile, this one tinged with something he couldn’t name. Regret? Sadness? It didn’t seem sad. Ylva never seemed sad. But for a moment her smile...drooped.
She got to her feet and he knew she was shaking the moment off. “Do you want to see the monthly balance sheet? I have it on my desk. The accountant sent it over this afternoon.”
“Can we do it some other time?” he asked.
“Of course.” She said it smoothly, the good business manager diplomatically dealing with her cranky, tired boss. “I’ll keep it to one side until you’re ready.”
“Is it good news, at least?”
Ylva’s smile was full of good cheer, this time. “I don’t know what it is about you, Asher. Every business you start just...blooms.”
“It’s the quality of the managers I hire,” he said flatly. “I find only the best.”
Her cheeks tinged pink. “It’s a shame your love life can’t match your business success. I have a friend—”
Asher groaned.
“What?” she demanded.
“You always have a friend. Jessica was a ‘friend’, remember?”
“How else are you going to find anyone to keep you company?” Ylva asked reasonably.
“I’m a grown man. I think I can find women all by myself.”
Ylva tilted her head to one side and put a hand on her hip.
“Besides, I’ve already found someone,” Asher lied. It would stop her from parading more women past him.
“Really?” Her voice was flat with disbelief.
He reached for the same construct he had given Jessica. “She’s a redhead. Doesn’t hold back when she speaks. Truth or die. Big black eyes.”
“Truth, hmm?” Ylva thought it over. “Does this redhead have a name?”
“Charlee.”
“And does this Charlee have anything to do with tonight?” Ylva asked. It was a penetrating question, and Asher almost jumped guiltily. If he wasn’t so exhausted from all the anger he had been deflecting for the last few hours, he would have.
He reached for the denial, the negative answer. But this was Ylva. He couldn’t flat out lie to her. Evade, dodge and misdirect, yes—hell, that defined his entire fucking life and every one of the Kine, too—but he couldn’t lie to her face.
Instead he got to his feet, like her, and looked at his watch. “I’m going home. I need a shower and I really want to sleep.”
Ylva gave him another small smile. “I’m sure you do.”
* * * * *
Dairy, meat and produce were delivered each morning to the restaurant. One of the sous chefs inspected the orders before accepting delivery, then started up the kitchen routines for the day, prepping for the lunch rush, while Ylva and Pierre, the head chef, didn’t come in until late afternoon. Every now and then Ylva liked to arrive unexpectedly early, to check on activities at odd times of the day.
After a restless night of fractured sleep shot with images of Asher lying bloodied on the battlefield, Ylva dressed and went in around noon. She checked on the daily inventory, talked to the sous chef, and settled into her office to tackle the paperwork Asher hated. He was at best an absentee owner and left very nearly all of the restaurant’s concerns to her, while he dealt with the other demons in his life, but at least he acknowledged his lack of involvement, as he had last night. Ylva had earned a small fortune over the last forty years, controlling a series of start-ups for him. Constantly starting over, risking everything yet one more time, gave life a degree of spice that she would have missed otherwise, so she didn’t in the least mind his absence.
Around four in the afternoon, she stirred and went out to the bar in search of coffee, to stretch her legs and clear her head, instead of having it brought to her desk. So she was sitting in sight of the front door when it opened a few minutes later, letting in warmth and afternoon sunlight.
A young girl stepped hesitantly into the restaurant and paused by the hostess’s podium, looking around. She looked nervous, her big eyes wide and apprehensive. Her big dark eyes.
Ylva took in the bright red hair that seemed to spring upwards from her head before the sheer weight of it pulled it down toward the ground and swiveled on her stool toward the girl. “Can I help you?” she asked, lifting her voice enough to reach her.
The girl licked her lips. “I’m looking for.... Does Asher work here?”
Her dark eyes and red hair had braced Ylva for the girl’s answer; otherwise she might have been surprised. Instead, she felt a touch of amusement. “I know Asher,” she told her. “But he doesn’t work here. Not exactly.” She beckoned with her hand. “Come closer. It’s alright.”
The girl walked past the small group of sofas, heading for the bar. Her glance fell on one of the set tables on her left. The dishes and cutlery from the last lunch customer still sat, forgotten, on the snowy cloth. Ylva made a note to ask a waiter to clear the table as soon as she spotted one.
The girl stopped five feet away from the bar and licked her lips again.
“It’s alright,” Ylva repeated. “The bar isn’t really open and I’m just drinking coffee. Why are you looking for Asher?”
“You know him?”
“Very well.”
The girl studied her, tilting her head to one side just a little. “You’re lucky.”
Ylva blinked, surprised. Then she considered the girl’s observation frankly. “I think I am,” she agreed. “Are you...is your name Charlee?”
The girl smiled and the expression lit up her face, her eyes. It seemed to highlight her glowing hair. “He told you about me.”
“Not exactly.” Ylva held back the rest of what she had been about to say, that Asher had omitted a bagful of details, the sort of details that had left Ylva thinking he’d met another doe-eyed beauty that would try to own him, gripping tighter and tighter until he was forced to pry her from him. He had let Ylva imagine the complete antithesis of this child standing before her.
“Is he here?” Charlee asked.
“Not at the moment.”
All the brightness in the girl wilted. “Oh.”
“Tell me why you’re looking for him,” Ylva told her. “I might be able to find him for you.”
Charlee shifted on her feet awkwardly. She gave Ylva a small smile and a shrug. “I feel really stupid about it.” She said it like it was a confession.
Humor touched Ylva again. “Charlee, I’ve heard more stupid stories about Asher than you’ve had hot dinners. I don’t think you could surprise or shock me.”
Charlee tilted her head again, considering her. Then she slipped the backpack she was carrying off her shoulder and dug into one of the outside pockets. “He gave me a card last night. One of those little ones. It just had a phone number on it. In case I needed his help again.”
“He helped you?”
Charlee hesitated. Ylva could almost see the caution touch her. “Yeah, in a way,” she said. She held up the business card.
Ylva recognized it as one of several that Asher used. “That’s the number at the bank,” she said.
Charlee nodded. “I went there after school, but the lady at the desk at the front—”
“The receptionist,” Ylva corrected, almost automatically.
“Yeah, the receptionist. She wouldn’t let me in. She said to try this place here, so here I am.”
The last two words came out sounding like “eye-yam.” The girl’s Bronx wasn’t as strong as some Ylva had heard. Their dishwasher’s accent was so thick she often wanted to giggle at the rich hoodlum images it provoked. Charlee’s accent hadn’t been audible at all when she had first begun to speak. She must have been concentrating, masking it. Now she was relaxing a bit more, it was emerging.
“You need Asher’s help again?” Ylva asked her.
The girl shook her head and dug back into the pocket again. This time she withdrew a larger white sheet. There were hand drawings on it and some block letters f
illed in with crayon. Ylva spotted the first word and put it together. A home-made thank-you card.
“I wanted to give him this,” Charlee explained. “But he’s hard to find.”
“He can be,” Ylva agreed heartily. She held out her hand. “If you give it to me, I’ll make sure he gets it.”
Charlee didn’t hand the card over. She was looking around the restaurant, at the brass fittings, the ornate ceiling, the silk wallpaper. “He doesn’t work here?” she clarified.
“He’s sort of a manager,” Ylva said. Which was a truth of a kind. Not handing over unnecessary knowledge about another of the Kine was automatic. It came without thought. She didn’t know what Asher had told the girl about himself, so anything she said might contradict what the girl knew about him. Better to say as little as possible.
Charlee was taking in the opulence all over again. “I think I’ll just go,” she said softly, the hand holding the card falling back to her side. She backed up a step or two, the backpack flipping over her shoulder once more.
Ylva stood. “No, really, it’s fine,” she said. “You can trust me, Charlee. I’ll get the card to him.”
Charlee gave her an effortful smile. “I told ya. It’s stupid, anyway.” She turned and headed for the door, and Ylva chewed her lip, trying to think of some way to keep the girl from bolting from the restaurant like a frightened (intimidated) animal.
The girl slowed as she passed the uncleared table, looking at it. Then she halted. After a moment of thought, she turned and looked at Ylva over her shoulder. Her red hair curled about her face, masking nearly all of it except for the one black eye looking at her. “Would anyone mind if I took the scraps?” She pointed at the remains of the steak dinner on the plate. There were a couple of inches of what had been a twelve-ounce steak sitting in congealed mushroom gravy.
Horror touched Ylva. “You’re hungry?” she asked softly, stepping toward her.
Charlee smiled quickly. “Nah. I got a dog. She’s always hungry.”
The Branded Rose Prophecy Page 5
